My Victor
by MistOnBirchLeaf
Summary: The Head Gamemaker holds the power of doling out a few more meager moments of life and ending that same life at a whim. We mustn't disappoint the audience, must we? But even a Head Gamemaker's hands can be tied. Seneca Crane explains to us exactly why the 74th Hunger Games were so pivotal.


I chose her. I chose to give her life. My fault.

_Snow White. But hair of dark brown confronts my eyes, and I look into restless orbs of burning fire. Orbs of uncanny grey. And her face is not delicate and white as icy flakes; it is sunbrowned and ruddy with health. Her lips are not blood-red and soft; they are dry and pressed together in a faint scowl._

She's fiery and spunky, her petite form strong and resilient from years of hunger and survival. She has a thin frame with slender limbs, but she's a huntress, the fact of which, in and of itself, screams "Rebel!"

Because no one from the poorest district in Panem can hit a bullseye unless they're trained. Which they aren't. They don't train in District 12: they starve and scrape by however they can.

Anyone who can handle a bow is a criminal. Anyone who can skewer an infant-sized dummy from forty yards is a practiced criminal. Any criminal is a threat to the Capitol; they undermine its supreme control over every aspect of the district people's' lives

This particular criminal has been doing her hunting beneath the noses of the Peacekeepers for years, I can tell, which says a great deal about her will to live. She is tenacious. She is strong. Her spirit is unbroken and will not easily be broken, even amidst the terror of the Games.

And this fiery rebel who glares at me with flushed cheeks and a furious pair of grey eyes now pulls back her arrow with professional steadiness and sureness in her thin arm.

Before my mind has completely registered the danger of the situation, the imminent danger to us Gamemakers, her arrow has flown towards me.

It sings past me, a fingers'-breadth from my abdomen, planting itself in Snow White's crimson apple, pinning the blood-red fruit to the wall.

_In this fairy tale, the fair princess does not partake of the deadly fruit. She laughs at tradition and meets not her demise. _

Ah, she has a temper. She sees our lack of interest in her presence, she sees that she is but a child with a strung stick and a twig. Miss Everdeen knows that we control her fate and that little she can say or do can alter the finality of her death.

However, when the angry arrow pins the smooth apple to an equally smooth wall, I cannot help but swallow hard, for I see an unconquerable determination within those steely depths.

And then I grimace as she bows ever so slightly, barely deigning to offer the faintest courtesy to our lowly selves. The bow flies from one hand, the quiver from the other, the arrows rattle, and the Gamemakers and I nod at each other. _This one. _

Katniss Everdeen will be the death of me, I swear. I can see it in her rage, her bitterness. She would never be a spoiled, fattened, rosy, plump Capitol kitten, content with her silken cushions and gold and ivory shackles.

No, she would die before suffering the indignity of our gilded cage. And she would lead all of the districts into rebellion with a glance, a word, a plea.

What other tributes have her pluck? Resigned, all of them. Eager for blood, some of them. Terrified, half of them. No, we have a fighter, and when she pulls her arrows out of her prey, I can see her imagining our demises, our grisly ends.

President Snow sees this as well; he cautions me before the Games begin. We cannot afford to give the people hope; we must make sure that the Capitol citizens never open their eyes enough to see beyond their dinner platters. We must ensure that the districts are too starved to think about anything beyond their next meager meal. Control must be maintained.

The dratted girl and her luminous eyes will live a shining life that encourages the growth of hope in the districts. If she dies, she will also die amidst her brilliance, and that too will set off an unquenchable flame of rebellion.

The people will love her and respect her for daring to own herself, to think like a free person, for daring to challenge seventy-four years of murder. Yes, I say it: murder.

When Katniss looks into my eyes after the arrow impales the roasted boar's mouthful, I can almost hear her voice sneer into my ear: "Crane, did you really think that the Arena's bounds can hold me?"

I know that they can't, and for the next agonizing days, I push her to her limits. Keeping her _this_ close to death and _this_close to life draws in the Capitol's audience and reminds the districts of how uncertain life is. That at any moment, Snow might snap his fingers and all of them would be exterminated as one kills off vermin.

So oppressed; no wonder they'd leap at any chance of hope.

My life hangs by a thread by the last three days of the Games. Katniss and Peeta are allies and madly in love. They adore each other for the cameras' benefit, wooing the Capitol with their desperate kisses and sweet stories of how they first came to love the other.

Snow is furious with me; he holds my gaze in icy contemplation. Katniss must not live. Katniss cannot die. She's nothing but a child, an easily-replaceable tribute. But she's a precious child, priceless to the districts who love her already and admire her. They would tear me apart in a feverish rebellion.

If she dies, I die. Eventually. If she lives, I die. But mercifully sooner.

Peeta's expendable; perhaps the blood poisoning will be too strong for the potency of the medicine. Perhaps his fever will rise. But no: he grows better. I can hear the rope ends grinding over each other as the hangman shapes a noose...

Perhaps Katniss will sacrifice herself for Peeta's sake. But no: they are arguing with each other by the lake, trying to outreason each other and give the other a chance at life.

_Katniss_ holds out the berries. Not Peeta. The ever-striving fighter knows that I have my hands tied, with death at both ends of the rope.

Her expression is defiant, though she's trying to look pleading and teary for the sake of the whole lovers theme. I can see the depths of her grey eyes as I monitor the screen and toggle the controls. Her challenging gaze compels me to halt momentarily: she's asking me a silent question.

_Will you lose your victors, Crane?_

No, I will not.

_When the evil queen heard that the lovely Snow White was alive and happily married to the Prince, and just as kind and beautiful as ever, she fell over dead, consumed by rage._


End file.
